


Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

by SEABlRD



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bars and Pubs, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, Karaoke, M/M, Pre-Relationship, References to ABBA, hotpants are involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 06:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEABlRD/pseuds/SEABlRD
Summary: Everyone at the table, including Laurent, turns to look where Orlant is pointing. Which happens to be the stage, of course, so Laurent initially dismisses the outburst after catching a quick glimpse of the new contestant for karaoke and turns back to his drink.And then turns back to the stage.





	Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! if you follow me on tumblr/twitter youve probably seen some of the initial wip snippets lol so here it finally is :')
> 
> Jolly Sailor Bold won't update this week so you guys are getting this instead! I hope you enjoy! <3

Laurent doesn’t do bars. It’s just a fact of life, one of the unchanging and indisputable things in the world. A constant, steady and sure, by which everything else can be measured. A universally-known standard in the same way that water is wet, two plus two equals four, the sky is blue, and Laurent doesn’t do bars.

Which is why it’s a mystery for the ages as to why Laurent, who decidedly does _not_ do bars, is sitting at a table with a suspiciously slightly sticky surface, in a darkly-lit karaoke bar. He looks around the table at the other occupants and tries to remind himself that he loves his brother. Which he does, usually, but not tonight. He glances around the table at the invitees to the bachelor party.

On the left side of the table there’s Jord, his brother’s longtime friend from high school who’s presence here Laurent can’t seem to really justify, given that the man is about as interesting as unfrosted shredded wheat. Auguste likes him, though, and insists that he’s got his good qualities. As far as Laurent is concerned, the only thing Jord has going for him is that he’s gay. His boyfriend is a bit of a dick, but that’s what you get when one’s personality consists primarily of ‘sassy’ and ‘gay’.

To the left of Jord is Berenger, an equally bland individual whom Laurent likes slightly more by sheer virtue of the man’s shared interest in literature and horses. He’s also gay. His boyfriend Ancel is another matter entirely, as he carries most of the interesting aspects of their relationship. Ancel is also the only one in the group who’s been trying to get a spot in the karaoke queue for the past half hour. With little success, if that’s any indication.

Piled into the two-seater booth on the right side of the table are Lazar, Orlant, Rochert, and Huet. They’re mostly elbows as they try to coordinate themselves enough to be fully seated without having half of one’s ass in the lap of another. Laurent strongly suspects they might have decided showing up pre-drunk was an acceptable course of action to start off the night, given the frequency at which Lazar keeps trying to stick his finger into Orlant’s nose.

On the opposite end of the table is his brother, the man of the hour, himself. Auguste seems pleased with himself and his band of absolute morons, and Laurent suddenly wishes with surprising intensity that he wasn’t Auguste’s best man, if only for the fact that he might’ve been allowed to skip this situation entirely. He definitely wishes he hadn’t agreed to attend this stupid bachelor party, either, but Auguste is hard to say ‘no’ to when he chooses to weaponize his puppy eyes.

“What’cha thinking of?!” Auguste has to shout over the din of the bar as he leans onto the table with one arm, the other stirring his neon yellow drink with the straw that came with it. Laurent makes to reply a few times with false starts, the infernal screeching from the current occupant of the stage preventing him from being heard.

“I’m not thinking,” Laurent finally manages to get out between verses, taking a brief sip from his own (non-alcoholic) drink. “I’m judging.”

“What?!”

Laurent sighs and pointedly takes the straw of his drink into his mouth and chugs down half the glass. If Auguste wanted to converse with him, he shouldn’t have sat across the table. He lets his eyes unfocus over the heads of their alleged ‘friends’, half of which Laurent wishes he weren’t associated with at the moment.

In all, Laurent isn’t having an ideal night. He’d much rather be at home binge-reading that new series he’d bought online. The reviews even promised a thrilling twist at the end of book three, too. A much better use of his time, if he were to say so himself, but alas. The things he does for his brother.

He supposes he’s just plain lucky that Auguste didn’t pick a strip club.

There’s some boisterous cheering going up around their table, thanks to Huet finally deciding to simply lay horizontally across Orlant and Lazar’s laps with his legs propped up by Rochert, allowing the other three to fit comfortably, in the loosest possible sense of the word, in the booth at once. The hem of Huet’s jeans bunches up above his ankles, leading to the table’s scandalized and exaggerated swooning. Laurent once asked what that was about and was told that it was an inside joke from college. He hadn’t bothered asking about it again.

“Oh holy shit, look at that guy!” Orlant exclaims, which is definitely saying something given that he’s one of the only other straight men in the group aside from Auguste, who is technically bi but only for male celebrities. Apparently real life men aren’t good enough for him, a notion which Laurent can definitely get behind.

Everyone at the table, including Laurent, turns to look where Orlant is pointing. Which happens to be the stage, of course, so Laurent initially dismisses the outburst after catching a quick glimpse of the new contestant for karaoke and turns back to his drink.

And then turns back to the stage.

He does _not_ do a double-take, which would be beneath him in terms of outward expressions of interest, but he also can’t _not_ want a second look at the man who reluctantly walks up to the microphone.

The man in question is olive skinned with thick, loosely curled hair and an easy, if a little rueful, smile. He’s wearing a normal, slightly tight graphic tee shirt and bright orange, sporty hotpants. The skintight kind with the elastic waistband that comes up just shy of the vee of his hips, and who’s hem stops just over the top of his thighs. He seems uncomfortable in them, and really they do seem tighter than clothes have any right to be.

Unable to help himself, Laurent’s eyes are drawn down, between the man’s legs. Checking for decency, of course, since this is still a reputable establishment as far as he’s aware. When he catches himself it takes a not-inconsiderable amount of effort to drag his eyes back up to the man’s face.

“Do I really have to do this?” The man asks into the mic, addressing a table closer to the stage. His friends, presumably. Laurent considers the quality of the man’s voice as it reverberates in the speakers, running the tip of his tongue over his teeth. His mouth feels dry.

“A bet’s a bet, Damen!” One of the table’s occupants shouts back, followed by hoots and hollers of agreement from the rest of his friends, and some contributions from the surrounding tables as well.

“Aw, come on!” Damen, presumably, whines and pouts against the microphone. “I’m already wearing Pallas’ shorts, what more d’you want from me?”

“Can he take off the shirt, too?” Lazar asks, tone suggestive and much closer to Laurent’s ear than he’d originally anticipated. Laurent starts in surprise and turns back around to glare at the man, who is leaning forward with a leer, entirely focused on the spectacle on stage. Huet and Rochert are vocal in their support of that request as well.

“Be decent,” Laurent snaps at them. “You have the civility of pubescent chimpanzees.”

“You’re one to talk, you’re looking too,” Huet points at Laurent accusingly, which looks frankly ridiculous from where he’s propped himself up on his elbow against Lazar’s knee to twist around and see the stage over his shoulder.

“I am not.” Laurent frowns and pointedly turns his back to the stage, taking a long sip from his drink. He doesn’t, however, deny himself the opportunity of watching the slightly-warped reflection of the stage he can see in the mirror behind the bar.

Of course, that’s when the music starts up. The familiar repeating chord thrums in the speakers, and Laurent just barely restrains his reaction at the choice of song. He can see Auguste at the other end of the table splitting his attention between the stage and Laurent’s face. He takes another sip from his drink.

“Guys, seriously? Abba?” Damen says into the mic again. The beginning of the song crawls closer and his friends shout encouragingly.

“C’mon!”

“You love it!”

Laurent can see Damen shaking his head in the reflection. Despite that, he takes the mic off the stand and lifts it to his lips anyway.

“You guys fucking suck, you know that? I’m disowning all of you. You guys are the wo- _Half past twelve-”_

Laurent wasn’t anticipating the intensity at which the man attacks the first line of the song and nearly jumps out of his seat. He’s good though, Laurent can’t argue that, and he’s definitely got a stage presence. He’s really getting into it, too, if the reflection’s swaying hips are anything indication. It would be hypnotic, if it weren’t viewed second-hand through a mirror.

 _“_ _Autumn winds blowing outside the window as I look around the room, and it makes me so depressed to see the gloom-”_

It would’ve been too much, obviously, to ask that this Damen character might have a terrible singing voice to counteract the rest of him, but Laurent would never have been that fortunate. The universe is attacking him personally with this.

Perhaps this is his punishment for coming to a bar in the first place.

 _“Is there a man out there,”_ Damen growls into the mic, sending a shiver of lightning down Laurent’s spine. It’s almost good enough for Laurent to forgive him for using the movie version. _“Someone to hear my prayer?”_

Someone is hauling themselves up onto the stage to join him, Laurent notes, and the reflection reveals a similarly-clad ass in neon green hotpants, though they fit him much better than Damen. Must be the previously mentioned ‘Pallas’, Laurent muses. Instead of a tee shirt, Pallas is wearing a white crop-top with rolled sleeves.

Laurent is forced to lean to the side to avoid Lazar jumping up from the booth, which sends Huet’s top half under the table with a shout and a mess of limbs, also effectively kicking Rochert’s drink right out of his hand with an impressive splash of alcohol and ice. Lazar is blind to his friends’ plight as he hollers enthusiastically for the men on stage. Damen, for his part, accepts Pallas’ show of moral support and shares the mic.

 _“Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight!”_ they sing together, Pallas slightly flat in comparison, but who’s judging? Certainly not Lazar, who’s shirt is still on his back only because Orlant is preventing him from removing it and swinging it around like a towel at a sports game.

The electro music break between verses gives Laurent an opportunity to collect himself. Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, he notices Auguste staring straight at him with a sly look. He frowns, realizing belatedly that he’s been holding the straw of his drink in his mouth without actually drinking anything.

He decides it’s easier to face the stage than his brother and swings both his legs around on the chair, which is probably a great decision because the view is much better in person rather than viewed secondhand through a mirror. The whole bar cheers for them anyway, and the atmosphere turns celebratory, a marked difference from the vaguely amused acceptance the patrons had at the beginning of the night. Damen’s finally gotten into the swing of it and follows Pallas’ lead as they dance around on stage. Of course calling it a ‘dance’ might be generous, given that it’s more of an elaborate jumping in time to the beat.

Still. Laurent never understood what people meant by ‘jiggle physics’ until this very moment. He crosses his ankles and sucks down another greedy sip of his drink.

 _“Tired of TV, open up the window and I gaze into the night,”_ Damen seems to have completely given up his inhibitions by now, gesticulating dramatically as he sings with Pallas as his lone backup dancer. _“But there’s nothing there to see, no one in sight!”_

They seem to be having fun, at the very least. The music turns into an electronic buzz as Laurent tunes it out, distracted by the honest smile on Damen’s face. He has a dimple, Laurent notices absently, periodically distracted by all that thigh. In all fairness, there is quite a bit of thigh to take in at once.

 _“Is there a man out there?”_ Damen sings again, throwing in a typical pointing sweep of the audience for good measure. He passes briefly over Laurent’s table with the gesture and then does a double-take. A genuine double-take, surprised owlish blinking included. He cuts off the question in the lyrics with a faint squeak that sounds almost like microphone feedback. His mouth opens and closes like a fish.

Thankfully, Pallas covers the second half of that line. He also slaps Damen’s ass hard enough to be audible from where Laurent is sitting, effectively knocking the man out of his shock. The hand that had been stuck pointing out at the audience is hastily brough to Damen’s rear as if to protect himself from future slaps and the mutually offended expression on both their faces is too much. Laurent quickly covers his mouth to hide the grin he’s sure he’s sporting. On stage, Damen looks back at him and seems absolutely charmed.

“And so?” Auguste’s voice comes from directly beside him, and Laurent pointedly doesn’t look in his brother’s direction. Auguste leans over so that their shoulders are touching. Laurent uncovers his mouth after collecting himself and drinks the last few sips of his drink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Laurent replies, turning in Auguste’s direction slightly to be sure he’s heard. Out of the corner of his eye he notices that Auguste must have pushed Berenger and Jord toward the back of the table to make space for himself to sit beside Laurent.

“I think you do,” Auguste teases, nudging Laurent playfully. They both watch as, even as he works through the rest of the song, Damen keeps shooting furtive glances Laurent’s way. Auguste whispers conspiratorially in Laurent’s ear, “I think he likes you too.”

“You are ridiculous.” Laurent declares and gets up, knocking Auguste off from where he’d been leaning against him. “I’m getting a refill.”

Coincidentally, the bar is closer to the table where Damen’s group is sitting, though not by much. Laurent tries to ignore this fact as he orders more of his previous drink, making a point of ignoring the last few repetitions of the chorus. He’s only dimly aware that the song ends when the bar erupts into thunderous applause. Laurent turns around just in time to see Damen and his friend jumping down from the stage.

There’s someone looking at Laurent, as well, he notices. One of the men from Damen’s table is standing and staring directly at where Laurent is leaning against the bar, a deep frown on his face and brows scrunched together in a caricature of annoyance. Laurent turns away before he can do something foolish, like wave sarcastically in the moody stranger’s direction.

A new voice crackles through the bar over the speakers with the telltale electro pop beat of some early 2010 song, and the bartender only shakes her head with an unimpressed look. Laurent notices briefly that she’s wearing a well-tailored black waistcoat but it’s entirely splattered with bright neon paints, like a Pollock painting. It’s unique, Laurent has to admit, but the thought of ruining a good waistcoat for an aesthetic irks him. He bites on the end of his new straw to avoid saying so to her face.

“How can you even have the nerve to try and go up there and sing, after that last guy?” she asks rhetorically, and Laurent shrugs. Her nametag says ‘Vannes’ in hot pink chalk marker. Encouraged by the response, she continues: “I couldn’t do it. I mean, why would I wanna get up there and perform when everyone is gonna compare me to the last guy anyway? Seems like you’d be asking for people to make fun of you.”

“Isn’t that the point of karaoke night anyway?” Laurent points out, to which Vannes makes a vague noise of agreement and returns her attention to the other patrons at the bar.

Laurent takes a sip from his new drink, revelling in the coolness of it. There is a significant difference between a fresh drink and one that’s been nursed over the course of a whole evening, and that difference is called ‘cold ice’ or ‘melted ice’.

The bartender makes a strange face and suddenly she’s hurrying off to the other end of the bar, picking up random bottles and a shaker on her way. Laurent knows what a person looks like when they want to fake being busy and he narrows his eyes at her retreating back in suspicion. He doesn’t dare look at what might have sent her running, but he has a feeling he’ll know soon enough.

“Hi,” a familiar voice says beside him, just loud enough to be heard in the bar, hoarse after having sung his heart out. Laurent braces himself for- well, anything, and turns on the bar stool to face him, unable to help himself as he gives the man a cursory once-over.

He’s still wearing the same tee shirt that he had on stage, but between his leaving the stage and coming to the bar he swapped out the orange hotpants for a regular pair of jeans. What a shame.

“Hm,” Laurent says.

Damen’s cheerful look drops quickly at that, replaced with confused annoyance. “Excuse me?” he asks, though there’s no bite to his tone.

“Oh,” Laurent waves dismissively and takes a sip of his new drink. “Nothing.”

“Okay, no, there’s definitely _something_ ,” Damen grumbles, frown deepening. “You just looked at my crotch and made a noise like you were, I dunno. _Disappointed_.”

Laurent has to fight the tug of amusement that threatens to make him grin. “I just preferred your other outfit, is all,” he shrugs, watching as a handful of wildly ranging emotions flickers across Damen’s face. “No need to get your hotpants in a twist.”

He does end up smiling a bit as he watches Damen trying to resolve the possible meanings behind his statement. It takes a few seconds but eventually he seems to come to the decision that the chance is worth taking.

“I’m Damianos,” Damen says, the smile back on his face, a little more guarded this time. He slides onto the bar stool beside Laurent and leans his elbows against the counter, head tilted to look at Laurent. Unconsciously, Laurent finds himself mimicking the gesture. “But just ‘Damen’ for short. And what can I call you?”

“Bold of you to assume, Damianos,” Laurent says instead of replying, swirling his drink slowly to make the ice inside clink against the glass, and makes deliberate eye contact with the man beside him. “That I was looking at your crotch, to begin with.”

Damen apparently doesn’t know what to say about that and keeps his mouth, wisely, shut. Instead he flags down Vannes, who saunters over with a little more bounce than Laurent thought she had earlier. She leans up against her side of the counter, looking amused more than anything else.

“What can I get ya, love?” she asks, still shaking her cocktail shaker from earlier. The ice and liquid inside slosh noisily. Laurent wonders in passing if she’s actually made a drink or just tossed whatever she had into the shaker and hoped for the best.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” Damen points at Laurent’s drink.

Both Laurent and the bartender look at him strangely; Laurent with a single raised, trimmed brow, and the bartender with an expression of pure, unadulterated delight.

“Coming right up!” she declares before Laurent can say anything.

He and Damen watch as she flits about behind the counter before finally depositing a twin to Laurent’s glass onto the bar. Damen picks it up and takes the straw out, setting it down on the bar. Well, at least now Laurent knows why all the tables are sticky.

“Cheers!” Damen exclaims, and then tosses back about half of the glass’ contents without batting an eye. He puts it down much more slowly, perplexed.

“What?” Laurent asks, though he already knows exactly what the problem is. He can’t seem to stop the mocking grin that spreads across his own face as Damen brings the glass up to his eyes and looks inside, as if that might answer all his questions.

“This is juice,” Damen says.

“Astute of you,” Laurent drawls. “If you don’t like it just give it to me, I’m already drinking some anyway.”

Damen pulls his glass closer to himself. “No, I can still drink it,” he says hastily. “I just, uh, wasn’t expecting juice. That’s all.”

“What are cocktails if not alcoholic juice?” Vannes interjects, still leaning against the counter and watching the exchange with a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Laurent points out, and she gives him a wink before heading back to the other end of the bar.

They watch her work for a little bit, Damen having put his straw back into his glass (Laurent barely restrains a gag) and taking another sip of it. He doesn’t seem as bothered by the taste now that he knows what it is.

“So, I never got your name.” Damen says, after his last pull from the straw is met with the airy sucking noise of the bottom of an empty glass. Laurent scowls a little at that. The drink may not be alcoholic but it was meant to be _savoured_ , not chugged like a mug of beer.

Laurent considers Damen for a good minute, enjoying how the man squirms under his gaze but sticks it out on the possible chance that Laurent might tell him his name. A hopeful look greets him when Laurent’s eyes return to Damen’s face. Damen’s grin widens when Laurent turns away with a slightly flustered huff.

“Well?” he prompts again, drawing the word out expectantly, and Laurent eventually caves.

“Laurent,” he replies.

“Laurent,” Damen repeats, and it’s both too much and not enough and infuriating all at once.

“Don’t wear it out,” Laurent deadpans, and Damen only laughs.

“You watched me do karaoke?” Damen asks, but it’s not really a question. They both know they saw each other in the crowd and on the stage. “What did you think?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Absolutely not,” Damen says with fake seriousness. “If I sucked, please tell me now so that I never embarrass myself like that again.”

The earnest look on his face makes something in Laurent purr and he forces it down, maintaining his composure. “You were,” he evaluates, drinking down the rest of his drink. “Adequate, I suppose. I can almost forgive you for going with the movie version.”

“How did you know I went with the movie version?”

“The pre-chorus is different,” Laurent tells him, licking the last few drops of juice from his lips. He almost preens at the way Damen’s eyes track the movement. “In Abba’s original version it’s ‘ _there’s not a soul out there’_. The movie version specifically asks for men.”

Damen lets out a sharp bark. “Okay, you caught me. When the movie came out my fifteen year-old ass had a huge crush on the daughter and I watched it religiously for the entire year. I memorized all the songs,” He confesses, sharing the story freely. So he’s bi, Laurent thinks absently as he chews the end of his straw.

Damen doesn’t just leave it at that, though, and counters with: “But if you recognized the different version, that means you watched the movie enough to know those lyrics too, so what does that say about you?”

“It means I like songs about men,” Laurent states, short and to the point, and the bar shakes with the force of Damen’s mirth.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” Damen manages to wheeze.

“I also,” Laurent continues, smirk blooming on his lips, “like the men the songs are about.”

The laughter cuts out with a choke and Laurent has the generosity to pat Damen’s back as he recovers from inhaling his own tongue. Over Damen’s shoulder he spots the same disgruntled man from before, who makes an aggressive ‘I’m watching you’ gesture in Laurent’s direction. Laurent just barely stops himself from giving the man a front-seat high-definition view of his middle finger.

“Really?” he asks instead, directing his attention to Damen. “You can’t tell me that’s surprising to you. We both listen to Abba.”

“Sure, okay,” Damen says, and Laurent is sure that there’s a lot more he could add to that but all coherent thought seems to have abandoned him.

Damen takes a mouthful of the ice from his glass and crunches it and, helplessly, Laurent finds himself taking in the way the other man moves. He’s allowed to appreciate it, he’s young and he has functioning eyes, and he’s been having a pretty unremarkable day so far. He deserves this. Before he can think about it too much he makes a decision.

“It’s after midnight,” Laurent points out. Damen glances at him with a slightly suspicious squint, pausing mid-chew.

“And?”

Laurent sighs. “If you happen to still be looking for men,” he tries again, and the words come out as though he’s dragging them out of his own mouth with his bare hands. “I could be amenable.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

So he’s really going to make Laurent say it? Even just the thought of voicing it is embarrassing enough. It shouldn’t be, he knows, because people do this sort of thing all the time. It’s perfectly normal. They can go to bards, drink, party, and ask attractive strangers to leave with them _all the time_. But then again, Laurent really, really doesn’t do bars.

Instead he gets up and slides off of the bar stool, then holds his hand out toward Damen in invitation. The man stares at him a little blankly and Laurent briefly wonders if he’d misread everything. His confidence slips and so does his gaze, falling to where his hand is still reaching, empty. This was a bad idea.

Just before he can pull away, a warm palm meets his.

He looks up and meets Damen’s eyes, surprised and maybe a little nervous. He shouldn’t be, not with the way Damen is grinning, eager and boyishly, as though he’s won some sort of prize. He projects way too many emotions, Laurent thinks.

“Really?” Damen asks, and it’s a little redundant now because Laurent is tugging on his hand. He gets up hastily, almost knocking his knee against the underside of the bar, and follows.

“Why not? I’m in a good mood,” Laurent shrugs, as though that’s reason enough. “And you look good in hotpants.”

“They didn’t actually fit me, you know,” Damen cringes a little bit at the apparent memory of the too-small garment. “I don’t think I’ll be putting those on again anytime soon.”

“I guess you’ll just have to forgo them, then. A tragic sacrifice that will not be in vain.”

Damen also laughs too easily, Laurent thinks, but that isn’t really a complaint. He looks like a man who was made for smiles and laughter. It just suits him.

A flurry of movement in the background draws his attention and then Laurent really wishes it didn’t. Back at their table across the bar, Auguste and his horde of idiots is frantically waving and giving thumbs-ups in Laurent’s direction. If he listens closely, Laurent thinks he can hear Lazar whistle.

“Oh my god,” Laurent says flatly, pulling on Damen’s hand harder. “Whatever you do, don’t turn around.”

Of course, true to what Laurent knew he would do the second he’d opened his mouth, Damen turns around almost completely to look behind himself. He definitely spots Auguste’s table, and they must spot him right back because the waving and cheering renews with more enthusiasm than before.

“Friends of yours?” Damen asks, amused.

Laurent finally manages to pull Damen away with the brief afterthought of what his strength must be like if he were actually exerting himself, given how difficult it is to move him when he’s idle. “I’ve never met them in my life,” is what he says in reply.

After exiting the bar he lets Damen take the lead, with the promise of his place being closer than Laurent’s. His roommate won’t mind, Damen reassures him, as long as they’re quiet when the roommate comes home and they clean up after themselves afterward.

Laurent’s phone pings in his back pocket and he uses his free hand, the one Damen isn’t holding, to pull it out. A text message lights up the screen.

 

> _[12:23] From Auguste - see u tomorrow at the wedding little bro!!! 11am sharp don't be late!! also feel free to bring a +1 ;)_

Laurent leaves him on read and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He has more interesting things to think about right now than his brother’s wedding, like if the dimple made by Damen’s vibrant smiles is as funny to stick his pinkie finger into as he thinks it would be.

An innocent, teasing thought to distract him from how soft he thinks Damen’s lips might be against his.

The walk to Damen’s apartment is largely uneventful, aside from the occasional glance Damen keeps shooting his way, as if he’s making sure Laurent is still there. Neither of them are willing to break the hesitant silence between them. They share clipped whispers and little smiles, but nothing more.

It’s almost awkward, by the time Damen unlocks the door to the apartment and ushers Laurent inside, but they make up for it in the little aborted movements they make toward each other, eager to reach out but nervous to ask for more. Once the door to the apartment is closed Laurent leans his back against it, watching as Damen takes off his sneakers and doing the same with his own shoes.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Laurent takes his chance.

“Do you think we should-”

“If there’s anything you want-”

They cut themselves off in wide-eyed surprise, then burst into a fit of giggles like children.

“It’s okay, you go first,” Laurent allows, tucking his hands in the small of his back, pressed between himself and the door.

Damen looks hopelessly enchanted for a few moments before he continues what he’d been saying. “If there’s anything you want either for uh, tonight, or maybe after...” he says it almost like a question, unsure if he’ll be allowed an ‘after’.

It’s sweet. Sweeter than Laurent expected from a man like Damen, but then again, maybe not.

“Let’s start with tonight,” Laurent offers, the implication of a follow-up colouring his voice, and he turns a pleased smile up at Damen when the man steps into his space. He reaches slowly, and Laurent thinks for a moment that he might go for his waist, but instead Damen’s hand falls on the small curve between his wrist and his arm with a light tough.

Sweet.

“Okay,” Damen says, leaning down to press a guileless kiss on the corner of Laurent’s mouth. “Tonight, then.”


End file.
